


outside the reigning order

by BrachaShakhor



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Acceptance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish!Martin, M/M, Mentions of HIV/AIDS, POV Second Person, TW: Homophobia, Teen Angst, martin has a type
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 03:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21293030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrachaShakhor/pseuds/BrachaShakhor
Summary: At 16, Martin has already learned the universe is conspiring against him.(Martin's dad finds out in the worst possible way.)
Relationships: Martin Crieff & Martin Crieff's Father, Martin Crieff/Douglas Richardson, Martin Crieff/Original Male Character
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44





	outside the reigning order

And it’s the spring of 1996 and at 16 you are somehow both short and gangling but you are learning, quickly, that that’s par for the course in your life, that the universe will break its own laws just to get in your way. That’s why you got your mother’s ridiculously pull-on-able ringlets like your sister but not your dad’s solidly workmanlike comb-able hair like your brother. It’s why you your parents did, actually, amazingly, get you that book about aerospace history you wanted for Chanukah but Nathan Doyle ruined it when he pushed you into that puddle of road slush later that week.

It’s why, despite every desperate attempt to look elsewhere, at the poster behind his shoulder of a classic Spitfire or the sky in out the window you can’t look anywhere, _anywhere, _but your friend James’ lips.

Okay, no. Breathe. James is talking a mile a minute as usual, slagging off Nathan and his gang, who, _if you’ll recall,_ split your lip only a month ago. Nathan had leapt back in exaggerated fashion and shouted to all the onlookers that, ugh, he had to stop before you gave him AIDS or something and then called you a word that turned your stupidly pink skin red with shame. Because he was right, wasn’t he? Here you are, with your one friend in the whole school sitting in your room, and you can’t even be fucking normal, not for one second, and the truth of it settles deeper into your bones.

You’ve known for a while now, to be honest. You can’t even say the word to yourself, though. What you are. It’s too horrible. To even think it would be admitting defeat. What would your family say? Your solid, well-mannered, working-class family. The stiff upper lip and all of that. Barely enough patience to tolerate your unflagging aspiration to be a pilot, and not much left over after that.

Your dad especially, with his rough hands and gruff demeanor. Once, when you were 10, you’d been watching telly with your dad and one of his mates. You’d felt so grown up and included, not even Simon was there. Maybe Dad would even let you have a sip of his beer. At some point, on a news program, they’d shown a brief clip of a man in a hospital bed. He looked like a skeleton. You’d asked what was wrong with him. Your dad’s mate had said it was because he was… you know. Then he’d laughed, and then it was past your bedtime and your dad sent you to bed, which was fine with you, because for some reason you couldn’t locate you no longer felt that warm sense of belonging that you had just a minute prior.

James makes a wisecrack. God, he’s so _clever, _the way he pulls words out of the air like that. Today one of Nathan’s various goons had shouted at you in the locker room after PE to stop staring at him. It was your fault, really, such an easy _fucking _target, the stupid red hair and your big dumb ears and being the only Jew in your whole year and the fact that you were…you were…and everybody had somehow _figured it out before you. _Anyway, Nathan's mate shouted that he didn’t want to fuck you, and everybody had left except for you and James. You’d just continued staring into the mildew depths of your locker, but James had shouted back, _that’s the first full sentence you’ve ever strung together, Dave. No wonder, though, you hear it often enough_ and the bell had gone before he could even be beat to a pulp. This is what James is talking about now, eyes rolling. In the waning sunlight, you can see the subtle gradation in his blond hair. It’s parted down the middle like Leonardo DiCaprio’s.

You snap back into the conversation when he says, “Anyway, the ego on him—thinking he could pull you, Martin, _honestly_. You’re so far out of his league it’s disgusting.”

You blink. “You think so?” you say, like an idiot, which is what you are.

He shrugs, but he’s smiling. “Yeah, of course, I mean look at you.” He’s still blustering on like usual but for some reason he’s blushing a little bit. “I mean… the whole shy-but-smart thing, and the freckles, and that hair…” He reaches up and pulls gently on one of your curls. It stretches and boings back into place. James glances at your lips, and it hits you like a ton of bricks.

Breathe. Take stock again. Yes, the universe is in business against you, but tonight Caitlin and Simon are both at friend’s houses. Your mother is away at your aunt’s (third) hen do. And you dad? Your dad is off at a late job, not due back for at least an hour. And your friend, who you have been stealing glances at all evening, is stealing them right back. So maybe, right now, to make up for all of the shit it’s put you through before, the universe is on your side. SO for once in your stupid life you decide to be brave, and you lean in and you kiss him.

And guess what? He kisses you back.

It’s clumsy on both ends. You accidentally knock into his glasses. He laughs and takes them off, and his hands are shaking a little, and he says “You look blurry now,” and leans back in. He threads one of those hands in your hair, and one of yours curls on his chest, a little awkwardly, and the other is clinging to his back. You’re honestly a little surprised at how squelchy and loud the sound of kissing is, and also when his tongue ends up in your mouth, you’re not totally sure what to do with it, but you think that it feels nice, anyway. And your heart is beating so hard, and you’ve never been high but you think that this is what it must feel like. And you’re so caught in the euphoria of the moment that your cramped little room becomes the only place in the whole world.

So when the front door opens, you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the heavy work boot footsteps that follow. You don’t think about your open bedroom door.

Not until it’s pushed the rest of the way open by your father, who is mid sentence. “Job finished early, Martin, want to eat—oh,” he stops.

You and James spring apart. There’s your dad, framed in the doorway. His mouth is hanging open, which you have never seen it do. You feel like you are going to throw up. James stumbles to his feet, and you watch him, dumbstruck and helpless, as he fumbles for his glasses. His bottom lip is slickly shiny with saliva. His eyes are bright and trained on the floor and you should say something but you can’t even breathe so you just watch as he grabs his book bag and takes off. He pushes passed your dad, who just lets him, and soon you hear the slam of the front door. You’re still staring at the air where he just sat. Your dad is still staring at you.

There is a long, long moment of utter silence.

“Martin,” your dad says, and it feels like a cattle prod, and you’re on your feet but you don’t remember standing up. Your dad takes a step further into the room, expression unreadable, and you bolt. You can hear him shout after you but you’re already out the front door, gone so fast you’re not sure it closed behind you. You’re not following James—he’s nowhere in sight—you just need to get out as far as you can go as fast as you can do it.

You run for five minutes down the road and then the peak of your adrenaline wears down and your stamina disappears. You stumble to a stuttering walk. You pass blooming weeds and beer cans in the grass and your mind is perfectly empty. You are tacky with sweat.

And because nothing can go your way, even though it’s spring you find that a cold snap has set in in the shallows of the evening, and your threadbare t-shirt is nothing against the biting wind. You stop walking and wrap your arms around your chest and that, of course, is when the tears start to fall. You’re shaking violently and the empty feeling in your brain has snapped.

You are ruined. Your father hates you. You can never go back.

Over the sound of your sobbing you hear the rumble of an approaching car. When you look back, you’re somehow not at all surprised to see the van, CRIEFF ELECTRIC stenciled on the side, approaching. It stops next to you. You think about bolting, but your legs are jelly and you’re out of energy and anyway, you deserve whatever is coming.

He’s staring at you, because you are a freak. He stretches over to roll down the passenger side window just enough to say, “Get in.”

You do, because you’re cold and you’re miserable and because you’ve got no place to go. You don’t look at him, though. Just stare through the windscreen at the darkening road.

He doesn’t turn back towards the house, just keeps driving on down the road. A thick silence fills the car.

He keeps driving. You don’t know where he’s taking you—probably a homeless shelter or something, to get you out. Fair enough.

Enough time passes in silence that you think he may never speak to you again when suddenly he asks, “Martin, are you gay?”

Just says it, right out into the air. And because he’s already seen you snogging your friend, and because you can feel each of your sixteen years hanging from your neck like a lead weight, you reply, “Yeah, Dad. I’m gay.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever said it out loud. No bombs go off. He doesn’t appear to die on the spot. He just keeps driving. You keep watching the road. You see a fox shoot past the car, into the underbrush on the other side.

“You being safe?” This is enough to tear your eyes away. He’s not quite looking back. Now it’s your time to gape.

“Martin, be honest with me. Are you being safe?” He asks a little more forcefully this time, but he doesn’t sound angry, really.

“I’m…I mean, I haven’t done…I haven’t…but I know how to…I know how to…to be careful,” you stammer lamely, your face heating. Your dad nods, and maybe you’re crazy, but he seems to relax, just a little bit.

“And he’s nice to you? He treats you well?”

If somebody had bet you a million pounds you would never, ever, believe that this is the line of questioning that he would pursue.

You think about James’ halting admiration earlier and the way he lobs putdowns at all the toughest guys who fuck with you. “Yeah. Yeah, he does.”

He nods again. “Good. That’s what matters, innit? Somebody who treats you well. As long as they’re…as long as he’s good to you.”

Astounded, you reply, “Okay.” You don’t know when you started crying again, but you have started crying again. Blissfully, your father doesn’t acknowledge this.

You drive for another minute in silence when suddenly he slams on the breaks. The road is deserted, but ever-conscientious, he throws his hazards on anyway. He turns and looks at you full-on for the first time this whole conversation. You cower a little in your seat, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Listen, Martin. I don’t always understand you. But that’s not new, that was true when you were six reading flight manuals at the library, okay? That’s who you are, and that hasn’t changed, you know?” He closes his eyes. He looks tired and sounds like he’s to corral his thoughts in order, which is something you do, sometimes, when you close your eyes, and in the gloaming light you see his resemblance to you for the first time.

He opens his eyes again. “You’re stubborn as a mule, Martin. Good. Stay that way. And if anybody ever tries to—tries to put you down or—or get in your face, you know, about who you are? About any of who you are? You better not let them. You give them hell. You show them exactly who you are. Promise me.”

There’s a strained second of quiet. The world is no longer spinning around your head. “I promise,” you reply, and it’s practically a whisper.

He nods and puts his car back into gear.

“You want dinner?” he asks. You nod and he puts the radio on, puts the car back into gear. You are in shock but you feel lighter than you have in months. A tension that you didn’t even realize was there uncoils from around your stomach. You are joyful, and also suddenly very hungry.

The rest of the drive passes quickly. At the pub, you both get hamburgers. He gets you a beer.

*

And it’s 2016 and at 36 you should know by now that Douglas won’t let you do anything of import without a solid meal first. You lean against the doorway to the kitchen sipping coffee. It’s hard to muster the energy to complain about how late he is making you when the eggs smells so good and the sun is shining in his hair and he is humming, looking pleased with himself as ever.

He is making you breakfast because today you are selling the van for scrap.

It’s time; the old thing only barely still goes despite the years of scrupulous upkeep, and since you moved in with Douglas and you all found enough gold in the plane that Carolyn was finally able to offer you a salary, you don’t need it for work anymore. You have given it a lot of thought and your mother has given you her blessing, but it’s still hard. Of course it’s hard. Douglas knows this, so he’s making you eggs, which he takes off the heat now.

He crosses to the cabinet to get a plate, but you set down your mug and get in his way, wrapping your arms around him, laying your head on his chest.

Your father never got to meet Douglas, but you can hear him in your head now, as if he were still sitting next to you, asking if _he’s nice to you? He treats you well?_ And you want to turn to him and say, yeah, dad. He loves me.

And even though you can’t, Douglas presses a kiss to the curls on the crown of your head, and for a golden moment, the universe aligns with you perfectly.

**Author's Note:**

> wooooo boy. title is from "I Lost My Innocence" by Ezra Furman, whom I love. it is a great song about queer joy and i recommend a listen. anyway! first of all i know the timeline is fucked! especially bc i've decided that douglas is like 15 years older than martin! whatever! the timing felt right. i also probably fucked up the tense/second person at some point but w/e. idk but i've been thinking about what it must have been like being a queer person when your formative years where shaped by the AIDS crisis. i'm no expert and don't pretend to be but it must have been....really, really fucking hard. also i wanted martin to come out and have it go weird but good okay? doing that thing fanfic lets you do where you use it to work out ur demons oops! just wanted 2 write about a queer jewish person other than myself (my constant headcanon of martin is that he is jewish, it is fine if that's not ur headcanon but it is mine, i don't think i need to say this but anyway please don't do antisemitism in the comments, also please don't call a jewish person a Jew in the way that marin uses that phrasing, i ripped that straight from my own days of teen self-hatred, thank u!) we learn from deleted scenes that martin's dad was actually v supportive of the pilot thing, so i thought maybe that stretched further. idk. maybe there's hope for us all. there's room in imagination at least for 'kingdoms of love outside the reigning order'. okay shutting up now ily


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